


Rinse Cycle

by Arukou



Series: Tumblr Archive [19]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, But really more of a Meet-ugly, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5576986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arukou/pseuds/Arukou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a red-haired beauty doing laundry two machines down, but Clint's pretty sure those suspicious stain's aren't ketchup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rinse Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an alternate universe where Natasha was never Clint's mark. Distinctly influenced by 616 Fraction Hawkeye.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com/post/125717218713/pairing-clint-bartonnatasha-romanov).

“Barton,” Johnny said, an air of resignation around him. “I’m so tired of seeing you in your skivvies. For the love of God, please bring a change of clothes here. I’ll put it behind the counter for you.”

Clint grinned and rubbed at the back of his head. “Sorry, Johnny. You never know when you’re gonna have a surprise encounter with an aggressive dumpster.”

“Was it those Russian guys again? I’m telling you. I know a guy. I can help.”

“Johnny, I love you. But I’m not trading in Russian mobsters for Italian mobsters.”

“They’re good guys.”

Clint shrugged and went to put his hands in his pockets only to realize that he didn’t currently have any pockets to put his hands in. They ended up awkward on his hips, his elbows jutting out. “God, I look like Steve without the dumb tights,” Clint murmured and went to sit on the machine with his clothes in it, swaying gently with the rocking, his wallet at his side.

For a while he zoned out, picking idly at the bandage on his arm and letting the regular swishing of the machine sooth him. It was late, and there was no one else in the laundromat; just Johnny whistling and reading his newspaper.

She must’ve come in silently, because the next time Clint turned his head toward the door, she was three machines down from him, hastily shoving a set of soft pink clothes in the wash. Still not quite with it, he blinked slowly, thinking that the design on the pink was very strange. Who chose that unflattering shade of brown for an abstract pattern on pink? It almost looked like…

Clint tilted his head, slowly waking up. He knew that shade. It was on enough of his own clothing to send a warning off in his brain. Blood. He looked up at the woman, senses sharpening. Her red hair curtained her face, so he couldn’t see if there was any bruising, but he could just see a hint of white bandages peeking out from beneath her left shirt sleeve. As she turned to grab the next article of laundry, he saw she was favoring her right foot.

“Hey. Hey lady,” he said, sliding closer to her. His skin caught and pinched on the metal of the industrial washer, making a horrendously embarrassing squeaking noise. “Lady, are you okay?”

She looked up at him then, her face hard and inscrutable, like something carved from diamond and brought to life. She didn’t answer him, but he saw the way her right hand twitched, sliding down her leg. Squinting, he thought he could see the outline of a knife at her ankle, but he wasn’t sure, especially when she twisted a little, presenting a smaller target.

“If…you know…if you’re in trouble, I can help. That’s kind of what I do. Help people.”

“In your underwear?” she said, her mouth a tight, wary line across her face.

He glanced down at himself, the purple bruising fading to yellow across his ribs, the stitches standing stark across his thigh, the bandage on his arm. “Well,” he said after a moment, looking back up at her, “At least they’re clean underwear.”

Her mouth quivered for a moment and she turned away sharply, her flaming hair hiding her profile. “I’m fine,” she said finally,” her hands busy with the clothes. Now that Clint was watching for it, he could see how she folded them into small balls to hide away the damning splatters of rust brown.

“I’m really good at it. You know. Helping people. I’m serious.”

Johnny snorted across the room and lowered his paper. “Given how many times you’ve wandered in here covered in rotting Chinese food, I have to wonder, Clint.”

“I am,” he insisted, hopping down and relishing the way his bare feet slapped the fading linoleum. “You’ve seen me on the news.”

“Yeah. You look real good in Iron Man’s arms. When’s the wedding?”

Clint grimaced and raised a middle finger, watching as the woman’s shoulders quivered a little. She got the last of her laundry in the machine and plugged the quarters, looking around with a tight frown dressing her features.

“Detergent?” Clint asked. “I can spot you some.”

He almost felt like he was coaxing a feral animal, the way she watched him with narrowed eyes and hunched shoulders, as though she was about to leap away at any second. “What’s the catch?” she asked, fingers slipping to her leg again.

“No catch. Like I said. I help people.” He reached behind him and grabbed his bottle of detergent, setting it on the machine between them. She was just reaching for it, her fingers thin and white, when an explosion ripped through the street outside.

From his vantage point, Clint could see that his rust bucket was on fire, and he groaned. “Aw, car,” he said, but he was already in motion, hand extended to Johnny, who held his bow and arrow out with that same resigned expression, like this was all he could expect anymore.

Clint had his bow in hand before he realized that the woman was crouched in the corner, sharp, shining knives in each hand. “Are they after you?” he asked, just as she said the same thing. They both froze for a moment, and then Clint said, “Follow me. I can get you to my place and we can regroup.”

“You’re still in your underwear,” she said, though she was creeping closer, her movements as graceful as a ballerina’s.

He looked down at himself and then shrugged and drew an arrow. “Eh. I’ve gone into fights with less.”

At that, she did smile, sharp and brittle and thin, but ripe with dark humor. “Ok, Clint Barton. Lead the way.”

“You know who I am?”

“I’d have to be an idiot not to know an Avenger when I saw one.” She took his six, knives flashing as Clint slid them out the employee entrance, waving jauntily at Johnny as they left. The heat from the flames on the car was washing back even to the alley, and there was a distant siren wailing, drawing closer all the time.

“So who are you?” he asked as he crept along, bare feet squishing in something unpleasant.

She was silent so long he was sure she wouldn’t answer, but then a dart of silver flashed past him, angled at an upward trajectory. A man fell from the fire escape, his gun shooting wildly as he tumbled. Clint winced when the body hit the ground with a crunch, but he didn’t have time to think about it because another assailant was on him, big and burly and covered in curling tattoos. “Nice to see you again, Boris,” he murmured and leapt forward, landing a square punch on Boris’ glass jaw. He went down like a ton of bricks and Clint vaulted him to get the next assailant. He could hear grunts and groans behind him, but there wasn’t time to check up on his mystery lady when he had his own goons to worry about.

By the time the last guy went down, the sirens were on top of them and Clint’s Avengers com was beeping woefully. He tapped the line open and winced when Steve opened with, “Twice in one day, Clint? Really?”

He turned slowly and caught sight of his mystery woman, standing tall over a pile of burly Russians. Her hair was in disarray, and someone had split her lip, but she looked unharmed.

“They were after me,” she said softly, toeing one over. The man’s throat was open in a grisly red smile, and Clint winced again. Mystery woman was not quite as anti-mortal wounding as the Avengers, apparently.

“Really,” he said after a moment, drawing another arrow and tapping it against his bow. “Because I’m pretty sure they were after me.”

She glanced at him again, and then back down at the goon squad. After a moment, he shrugged. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” he offered, ignoring the blistering lecture Steve was giving him in his com ear. After a moment, he reached up and flipped it off entirely, wincing as his hearing aid readjusted and screeched.

Like a startled predator, she jumped back at the noise, her knives flashing up. She watched him with an air of fear, slowly relaxing again when no danger was forthcoming. Clint twirled his arrow through his fingers, and then strung it I in a heartbeat and shot through the knee of the goon who’d gotten up behind her. “So,” he said, turning and starting off down the alley again. “You got a name?”

She was so silent, he couldn’t be sure she was following, but a block later she finally said, “You can call me Natasha.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by [theappleppielifestyle](http://theappleppielifestyle.tumblr.com/) which read: "i’m in my underpants in a laundromat waiting for my clothes to get washed and your clothes are in the machine next to mine and i noticed that when you put your clothes in they were all covered in blood what the fuck’ au".
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://arukou-arukou.tumblr.com) for more fanfiction and general nerdery.


End file.
